The Traveller

I never really knew my great-grandmother. We used to go to her house and play when we were in town, but I don't even remember the Traverse City visits, and the later Florida ones were usually overshadowed by Disney or Sea World trips. But I like to think she was a kindred spirit. When she died, at the ripe old age of 96, enjoying a lobster dinner (we can't prove it was the lobster, but that would be the way to do it, so we choose to believe that was it), I didn't mourn her passing as much as the stories I would never know.

Because I do remember her house being a fascinating place. By the time she had pared down her life into a small Floridian condo, her possessions had been distilled to her most treasured relics. Elegant carved wooden giraffes with inset ivory from Africa, a fantastic parrot-mosaic table, and a snake-charmer's basket filled with toys. My brother and I always focused on the basket when we were at her house. So single-mindedly were we that she left it to us.

A few years later, I found this picture of her and my Great-Grandpa. I begged my mom to let me have it. I knew my Great-Grandma had travelled, and I still don't know the whole of where she had been. But the fact she went makes me realize that more runs in families than one thinks.

This picture sits next to my desk -- where all the magic happens when I can get the courage to get out from under the covers. Both as a reminder of my aspirations, and because you have to admire her panache with a sari :)

Gold Star to all those who share their stories before it's too late.